


Not Your Drone

by SecurityCat (GigantoPossum)



Category: DCU (Comics), The Losers (2010)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Queen - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2020-06-09 19:59:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19482961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GigantoPossum/pseuds/SecurityCat
Summary: Jake Jensen of the Losers squad runs into an old flame. For a year, no one had believed Black Betty was even real, but now they believe him and know exactly how dangerous this woman is.





	1. No Shirt, No Shoes...

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter one is set before the events of the movie, and the rest is after. Roque will betray the crew but ultimately be allowed to join again. I was going to have him not betray them at all, but this way I get more Drama TM to work with.

A small cape town, Costa Rica, 2009. Jake Jensen had opted to skip the ceremonial drinking contest as his body still hadn't forgiven him from the previous night. He plucked a loose string from his swimming trunks and stuck his toes deeper into the sand. A hand reached out to him, startling him. He yelped, backing up into a rock wall and bumping his head so hard he saw stars. The hand was holding a flashlight, offering it to him.  
"For the turtles," she said. "Breeding season. Can't have you crushing them under your feet."  
Thinking of the baby turtles, Jensen took the flashlight gratefully. It was a powerful one, and he instantly blinded himself trying to see how powerful it was. Probably still drunk, then. He rubbed vigorously at his eyes and said, "thanks."  
His brain was slow to catch up with his body and he briefly wondered why his pants were so tight. It wasn't like he was alone on a beautiful island beach with a woman who was also probably beautiful. He looked, just to make sure he was right.  
Her hair was done up in rope-like braids, the ends turning lighter from dye and stopping around her lower back. She wore an alpaca sweater that stopped at her midsection and the contrast of the bright blue of her bikini looked enticing against her dark skin. Jensen's jaw dropped. Very beautiful. SMoking hot actually.  
"Hi." Did I say hi, or did she? He said it again just to be sure.  
"Hi," she said. The woman chucked her head to the side. "Do you wanna go looking for sea turtles?"  
" _Sí, por favor_." It was the least amount of Spanish he knew, but she chuckled at his sudden change and mediocre pronunciation. Wrapping a gentle hand around his wrist, the woman pulled him from the rocky outcrop and down the slope of the beach, white sand under their feet and flashlights on the watch. A whistle rose from the bar overhead, but when he turned, Jensen could not determine who had wolf-whistled at them in the dark.  
Instead of heading to the waves, the woman pulled him along just beside the boardwalk. Her flashlight searched while Jensen's was trained on the ground before them, allowing them to step around rocks, jellyfish, shells, and broken glass.  
They found a batch quickly. Together they settled around the mound as it writhed, little black leatherbacks making their way to the sea. Flashlights off, so predators wouldn't find them.  
"What do we do," Jensen asked, wishing he was closer to her.  
"Nothing," she said in a hushed tone to match his. "Just watch."  
She kept her hands beside her, so he followed suit, fighting the urge to hurry them along or take them to the ocean himself. The little buggers looked soft to the touch, their tiny black flippers struggling to kick away the sand and race towards the beginning of their lives. After three of them had gotten stuck climbing out of the nest, Jensen found he couldn’t help himself. She didn’t try to stop him, only warned him to be gentle. He freed them and set them atop the sand nearby, so as not to show favoritism. The woman dug her hand inside, pulling a hatching egg from inside.  
“Last one,” she said. She must have been counting, probably here all night. Without much trouble, she peeled the shell from the baby and set it down atop the beach to follow its brothers and sisters. The scene was almost magical, and Jensen felt a swelling where he hadn’t in a long time: his heart. He turned to ask the woman about her name when something cawed hungrily.  
The two of them were on their feet in a flash, all manner of thoughts on natural selection out the window. Birds were swooping in and carrying off the tiny little babies, one devil gull even stopping to peck viciously at their soft shell for a slow, painful death. Jensen put most of his energy and aggression into batting away the gulls, grabbing the pecking villain by the neck and chucking it as far away as he could. The woman picked up the more endangered babes and put them in the water, hurrying up and down the line to pick them up. She knew she couldn’t save them all, and only carried them one in each hand. It was all they could do. Maybe an hour passed, and the long line was gone, either from having been snatched up to be a midnight snack or plopped safely into the waves, where the tide would take them in. Jensen was out of breath, huffing and puffing over the small cluster of turtles he had been standing over, and the woman joined him. These would be easier to protect, but as some fell behind the pack, the woman went back to pick them up and dropping them off into the ocean. Jensen lifted the last two, doing the final honors.  
Overcome, the man whooped and cheered loudly. “We did it! Baby Turtles, thank you for choosing the Jensen and Girl Express Airline.” He mimicked holding the flashlight like a microphone beneath his chin. “We hope you’ve enjoyed your flight into your new life, and wish you safe travels.” The man whooped again, just for the hell of it.  
“Betty,” she said at last. “They call me Black Betty around here.”  
“Because you’re…” Jensen thought better about asking if she was called black because of her skin. No use in getting punched in the face. “Right, nevermind. That is a beautiful name, for a beautiful woman. And a very popular song, if I’m not mistaken.”  
“You are not,” she said. “You know not all of those turtles are going to make it to the open ocean, right? There are, like, thousands of sharks and crabs in the shallow waters. Mola molas and tuna that will swallow them in one gulp.”  
‘“Yeah, well…” He knew deep down, he just didn’t want to think about it. He scratched his head. “That’s depressing.”  
Betty’s face changed to something more apologetic. “You know, at least a few more will make it, though. It’s a possibility.”  
“There’s probably, like, five in that bunch that’ll survive, right?”  
She chuckled. “That’s a bit optimistic but… yeah. Anything’s possible.”  
“Is that a hint of a British accent I’m detecting,” Jensen asked, trying to put the moves on.  
“More than a hint,” she said.  
“So you’re telling me you're not a beautiful Caribbean native girl?”  
He took an elbow to the ribs in stride and followed her as she strolled away from the bar and into the night lit only by the moon and the stars. Torch lights danced in the distance along every inch of the shores in a crescent shape.  
“I am,” she argued. “As beautiful and as native as they come. I just happen to be well traveled.”  
“Right,” Jensen said nodding. He scratched through the recesses of his mind for one of his classic pick-up lines. “I think we might need to call a lifeguard, ‘cause I’m drowning in your eyes.”  
Betty was not impressed, so he instantly tried another one. “You know, that bathing suit would look a lot better on my apartment floor.”  
This time, she laughed, but very much in a ‘you’re pathetic’ kind of away, not a ‘you’re turning me on, take me right now’ kind of way. Or as Spongebob had once put it, laughing at him, not with him. He felt a hand on his lower back and suddenly he was laying in the sand in a daze, Betty settling over his head. From here, he could see up her jacket and liked the view of her underboob.  
“You’re cute,” she said. “You really think one-liners are a good way to pick up girls? You’ve got a lot to learn.”  
He batted his eyelashes. “You think I’m cute?”  
Betty smirked and walked away, reaching the water’s edge before Jensen managed to catch up. He left his shirt in the sand in a hurry to woo her. She saw and stripped in kind, revealing a stark white bikini top that made the thing in his pants do a little dance. The set of the scene was unfortunately interrupted by very loud voices coming their way, ones Jensen recognized instantly. Roque, Pooch, and Clay were yowling an AC/DC song, even Cougar’s voice rose with them as they stumbled their way down the beach. Jensen turned to say something to Betty, but she was ready to dip.  
“Can I at least get your number?” She whispered a string of numbers he was too frantic to write down and too drunk to remember come morning. As a last move, she stroked his chin.  
“Call me when you grow a real beard,” she said and slipped into the shallow blue water. Black masses like manta rays swirled around in her wake until she disappeared beneath the waves like a goddess returned to her domain.  
“Fuck.” He was definitely in love.


	2. Brighton Rock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's 2010, and the gang is making a living by taking up gun-for-hire missions on a global scale. Tonight, the Losers are celebrating post-mission.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm actually having a lot of fun with this.

“You know, I never even got a chance to tell her my name.”  
“Oh, my god, Jensen will you-- SHUT the FUCK up!” Pooch threw a saucer at him, narrowly missing his head. The annoying teammate found refuge by putting Aisha between them. She would never actively defend him, but Pooch would never dare throw anything that might hit her because the retaliation would be instant death.  
The group was winding down in the bunker while Clay was out collecting their payment. Pooch-- now a father to two-- no longer participated in many missions, at least none without his wife's permission, which was fine by the gang. He still came around to drink and play cards, sometimes he brought pictures of the kids for Cougar and Aisha. She'd never admit to it, but one picture had gone missing one night. It was of Pooch's daughter holding her baby brother, the two of them smiling bright as the sun.  
Jensen leaned over Aisha’s shoulder, backing off when she stuck a hidden knife under his chin. He sat down, only just far enough to get her to return to cleaning her gun.  
“Do you know what her name was?”  
“I don’t know,” Aisha sounded bored, “ and I really don’t care.”  
“Tell her, Pooch.” There was no deterring Jensen to everyone’s chagrin.  
Pooch sighed, defeated. “Black Betty.”  
“Black!” Jensen slammed his hand onto the table so hard everything on it bounced to the left. “Betty! The love of my life.”  
“Isn’t that what he said about the hot dog girl,” Cougar pointed out. “Let it go, _hermano_ , she’s not real, and even if she was--”  
“--Not like you’re ever going to see her again,” Pooch finished.  
Two heads nodded, joined by the sound of the bunker door opening. Jensen rushed to his laptop to check the security footage, relaxing instantly. “It’s just Clay. Clay and…”  
Roque was right behind him, as muscular and as ruthless as ever. It was a wonder he ever betrayed them with a name that sounded suspiciously like ‘rogue.’ The man plopped down on a chair in the corner, and he pulled out a few knives to sharpen. They hadn’t forgiven him, really, at least not right away. Clay had convinced them once upon a time with a rousing speech about family, but thinking back, none of them could really remember the sense they had heard in the words. The details were fuzzy, as was the effect they had on the group once they had worn off. Rogue had not made a single effort to apologize for trading sides, nor had they even had a real apples-to-apples conversation about it. Back in the day, the guys would have traded real insults, maybe even a few blows before ultimately coming to a cathartic and meaningful understanding. Not this time, though.  
Clay dropped a fat stack wrapped in a manila folder courtesy of their soon-to-be former employer and sat across from Aisha, admiring her handy work-- and her physique through her shirt. The room was quiet except for the CD track playing Queen’s Greatest Hits. Brighton Rock took the group's silence in stride until Roque felt the need to comment.  
“Am I the only one who’s bored here?”  
Needing something--anything really-- to do with his hands, Jensen suggested a game of Liar’s Poker. The rest of the night quickly fell into something like an old memory. It was pleasant, they even managed to convince Aisha to play two rounds before Pooch went home for the night.  
“I’ll drive.” Jensen grabbed the keys and buckled in before Pooch could protest.  
“You know who you’re talking to?” Pooch stood hands on hips like a disgruntled parent, which in a way he was. “I’m the best goddamn pilot in the whole freaking world, and you think you’re going to drive me home?”  
“Well, how else am I going to get the van back to the bunker?”  
Pooch climbed in. “Fair point.”  
The kids were asleep, probably Jolene too, so Jensen tried to be quick with his goodbye. Pooch grabbed the back of his head and drew his friend in for a hug. It was nice, warm even. Jensen felt like he hadn’t been properly hugged in a long time.  
“You know you gotta let this girl go, right?” Pooch held his hands up defensively when Jensen scoffed. “I’m just saying, you’ve gone two years. It’s time to get realistic, buddy. I mean, what even brought it on? You haven’t talked about her since New Years.”  
“The hot dog girl,” Jensen explained. “She said she didn’t like goatees.”  
“I don’t think most girls do, dude.”  
“That’s what Black Betty said! Well, I guess she said ‘call me when you grow a real beard,’ but it’s the same principle!”  
“Right…” Pooch waited for nothing. “And your point being?”  
Jensen made a show of stroking his chin. His hair was still short and spiky, but it seemed like he hadn’t been maintaining the fuzz on his face like he usually did. Things started to click into place that hadn’t before.  
“Are you serious, dude?!” Pooch couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You telling me some girl insults you, which brings back memories of a time a totally different girl insulted you, and now you’ re-- what-- trying to grow out a beard to impress her?”  
“Trying? What do you mean trying?”  
“Dude.” The thing was ratty like a boy’s in the cusp of pubescence. Pooch just shrugged really hard and hoped Jensen would pick up what he was putting down. “You’re never going to impress any girl with a beard like that.”  
A tiny bit of doubt crept onto Jensen’s face. “Yeah. Maybe I should just stick with what I know.”  
“Or,” Pooch said hurriedly, trying not to let the image fade, “you should buy some miracle grow for beards. They gotta exist, right?” Please be right.  
“Maybe.” Jensen patted his brother on the back and hopped back into the van. As he was about to deliver the final goodbye, his phone pinged a message. Jensen’s eyes lit up in a way that worried Pooch. “Looks like I might be seeing Black Betty again after all. Next mission’s in Costa Rica.”  
Pooch made no indication he understood what that meant. “You know… where I met her? Nevermind, I’ll see you in a few weeks, OK, bud?”  
With that, Jensen peeled out of the driveway, tires screeching and definitely waking up Pooch’s boy as well as every other house on the block as he left. Terrified dogs and angry neighbors in his wake. But that was Pooch’s problem.


	3. Meanwhile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clay and Roque on the mission to Costa Rica.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to read the title in the voice of Stephen Colbert. 
> 
> Celeb faces to put to these new characters are Tom Cruise as Les Grossman from Tropic Thunder, Meryl Streep as Yvette, and Henry Cavill as Agent Harrison.

“I’m going out,” Clay said finally. “Bunker’s getting a little stuffy in here.”   
Aisha didn’t offer to come with him, neither did the rest, so he left on his own. He found the nearest dive bar and ordered a jack and coke. The place was quiet, soft lights and wood interior that gave it a high-end feel, despite the peanut shells and blood stains on the floor. It wasn’t surprising when he caught the eye of a few of the women given his competition. Toothless, aging bikers and fat, balding office drones. He’d just caught the eye of a Hispanic temptress when Roque’s beefy chest blocked his view.   
“Clay,” he said. “We need to talk.”   
Eyes rolling, Clay ordered a drink for Roque. The man took a seat and smiled at the pretty bartender before taking a huge swig and sliding his phone in front of Clay. Picking it up, he read the message.   
“Tao... isn’t that the Chinese general you banged in Taiwan?”   
“Circa 1991,” Roque confirmed, wiggling his eyebrows. “She’s aged very well, my man.”   
“And you’re showing me your booty call because…?”   
Roque polished off his drink and insisted Clay pay. “Tao has a job for us. Come on, we’re meeting her at the Vanilla Unicorn.”   
Clay paused. “Like the strip club?” 

The Vanilla Unicorn was a strip club-- past tense. Roque explained on the way that the establishment also moonlighted as a low-key meeting place for high ranking foreign officials working alongside unknown American agencies and sometimes, very rarely, “shadow states.”   
“You fucking with me right now?” Clay scrubbed his rough stub with his hands trying to wake up. “Shadow states? Bullshit.”   
“That’s what Tao says,” Roque shrugged. “You can direct all your questions to her.”   
Tao had indeed aged well. Not the type to take too much pride in her appearance, she had let her hair grey naturally, gracefully. The woman was some fifteen years their senior and aged like fine wine. She wore a pristine white Chinese naval suit and stood at parade rest waiting for him. The basement was the only room that didn’t smell like smoke, cheap perfume, and sweat. The only light down here was the lamp on the round table, which was occupied by three people opposite Tao. A slimy looking balding guy with sausages for fingers and coke bottle glasses could be none other than the club owner. Sat beside each were a man and a woman in black tie casual, looking an awful lot like twins. Tao offered Clay and Roque the seats on either side of her, the latter taking the seat by the other woman and forcing Clay to sit by the cigar smoking owner.   
“I’m glad you could make it,” Tao said, bowing her head with respect. “This is Less Grossman, Yvette, and--”   
“Agent Harrison,” Roque interrupted. “We’ve met. CIA involved in this, eh?”   
Harrison, the man, smirked. His dark hair was a little messy around the crown and his mustache blended into the five o’ clock shadow he was sporting. He looked like the kind of man who, just beneath the collar, was hairy than Grossman. “All foreign business that goes on in this club is now overseen by the American government. New rules took effect a few decades ago.”   
“And you are,” Clay turned his attention to the one Tao had called Yvette. Her hair was cut to her shoulders and combed back, her cheekbones were high and her nose as straight as her demeanor. She was venerable and formidable all at once.   
“I am the one who asked General Tao to call you,” she explained. “I need your help to locate a rogue asset of mine.”   
“And what’s in it for us?”   
“Money. Lots of it,” she answered, sitting back in her chair.   
Roque shrugged. “That’s it?”   
“Well, I don’t suppose you’re the type to care about the welfare of innocent Americans,” she quipped. “This asset is a highly trained, highly unpredictable individual with an unknown agenda and the ability to disappear in a flash.”   
“And you just let this asset escape you?”   
“We didn’t let her escape us,” Yvette snapped, “she went dark during a simple recon mission in the Caribbean which I will not go into detail about.” She left no room for arguments, but things were getting interesting.   
“What can you tell us about her,” Clay tried.   
Yvette shot a glare at Grossman, and the man put his hands up defensively before walking out of the basement, Harrison on his heels and Tao soon to follow, but not before brushing her hand over Roque’s muscular shoulders. Once they were alone, Yvette slid a manila file folder to Roque while Clay got up and flanked her at the table. Inside were dozens of black bars hiding information about the ‘rogue asset.’ At the top of the stack was a paper clipped photograph of a young black woman. She did not smile, and there was something about her that felt strangely familiar.   
“This is Blue,” Yvette began. “You see, my organization creates clones from a limited pool of exceptional soldiers from high profile agencies around the world. This one is of the generation of clones we’ve created that have two parents, allowing us a larger pick of the select traits to boost the natural talent she and the others were eventually born with.”   
“You can control their genetics,” Clay said in disbelief.   
“To a degree,” Yvette mitigated. “Blue was born in the Gen-2 series of clones. Blue-- as well as the others in Gen-2, were created with higher concentrations of aggression, musculature, speed, and loyalty. This is only theoretical, and after observing the Gen-2 clones--”   
“You figured out it was bullshit science?”   
“Precisely.” Yvette turned the files to a page at the back with another photograph, this one a candid from a security camera. The girl wore her hair in box braids, her hands in her alpaca hair sweater, legs bare except for the bikini and sandals. She seemed to be buying snacks at a convenience store. “This was the last time we were able to find evidence of her.”   
“Where is this?”   
“Costa Rica.” She closed the folder and passed it off, straightening her suit coat and preparing to leave. “This is where you’ll be going.”   
She turned to leave but Roque called after her. “Why are you so sure we’ll find her? Don’t you have other assets in your possession that you could send?”   
Yvette did a half turn and smiled. “Of course, but you have something they don’t. Her blood. Thank you for your donation, by the way, some of our best assets were made with the DNA of one William Roque of the MI-6.”   
She left the men to gape openly after her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yvette will be reappearing, possibly Harrison and General Tao as well.


	4. Mango Margaritas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Investigating in Costa Rica, the Losers get a new lead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I've somewhat captured the spirits of Aisha and Jensen best.

Costa Rica, 2011.   
"These are some nice digs." Jensen fingered the satin curtains like the delicate strings of a violin. "So soft."   
"Quit molesting the furniture and sit down," Aisha commanded.   
A hotel room, not the steaming hot garbage they were used to, but Pooch insisted it was no Taj Mahal either. Cougar asked him when he had ever been allowed inside the likes of the Taj before Clay caught them by their ears to make them listen better. Aisha leaned against the cool bamboo wall with ease as she explained the situation.   
"Yvette informed us that the target was last scene in this cape town at a convenience store. She has an informant awaiting us tonight at the fireworks display up on the hill. In the meantime, team one--"   
"Hey-yo." Clay waved his hand with Cougar at his beck.   
"-- you'll be searching every place that her credit card was used. Team two, Roque and I, are going to talk to the rich folk she stole it from. And… team three--"   
"Team Hyper Ninja Awesome Snake," Jensen corrected.   
"No." Aisha gave him and Pooch a hard stare. "You'll be exploring the local haunts to ask around after her. Come midnight, we all meet at the festival and find out what Yvette's informer has to say."   
When they were alone in the sandy market, Jensen shoved his elbow into Pooch's ribs. "You know what this means right?"   
"Please don't say her name--"  
"Black Betty! And look!" He rubbed his long fingers through the dark blonde hair that lined his chin. "I grew a proper beard!"   
"Please, Jensen, for once, can we focus at the task at hand?"   
Jensen squared up his shoulders to seem more heroic. Then he leaned his head down to whisper, "only if you let me skip the meeting."   
"And spend 15 minutes away from you," Pooch asked, turning his head in mock thought. "Deal-- you got a permission slip? Where do I sign?" 

For team two, things were coming along only slightly more fruitfully. The hysterical Mrs. Garrison flung herself across the French chaise lounge with all the drama of an opera singer. Aisha rolled her eyes and wished she had never taken up with the likes of the Losers. Roque, on the other hand, couldn't help but peruse the wealth around them. The glass mansion had to be listed as worth at least 25 million dollars, and everything inside of it was twice as priceless. A little bit of thief in him was distracted tallying up the total cost and left Aisha to do most of the work.   
“Mrs. Garrison,” she tried sweeter than she felt, “Where were you when you noticed your credit card was stolen?”   
The distraught owner flipped her perfectly dyed hair and dabbed at her eyes, careful not to smear her waterproof mascara. She collected herself in those seconds, impressing Aisha with the turn of emotions.   
“Let’s see, um,” her gaze whipped back and forth like she was watching a fly do donuts, then they suddenly snapped up. “We were at a party. I used it to buy a trinket for my niece, and then it was gone by the time we went out for drinks with Laura and James Kennedy.”   
“And what happened in between?”   
“Well we were waiting to get our car back from the valet,” she shrugged. “It’s a Koenigsegg CCX rose gold paint with chrome stripes.”   
Roque whistled low. “That’s a fast car, Ma’am.”   
She smiled more to herself than to him. “It’s my favorite. Top speed’s 250 unmodded.”   
“Tell me more.” Roque took a seat while Aisha put her head in her hands for the third time today. 

“I think we’re lost,” Cougar said.   
Clay shrugged, both hands burdened with martinis as he maneuvered his way among the crowd of people. He slipped the piece of paper with the list of transactions on it to double check. “See a Florence Hair Salon around here?”   
The men’s heads swiveled around like owls in search but came up fruitless. After talking to someone in the crowd, they pointed out a yellow adobe building with no sign. They stepped down the stairs to the basement and the atmosphere of the saloon thick with the smell of marijuana and chemicals.   
A flamboyant woman in a floral pink muumuu and peacock head scarf pulled them in by their hands.   
“Welcome, welcome, welcome,” she said in English. “What can I do for you today, sirs?”   
Clay held out the blurry security cam photograph. She squinted. “Oh I seen her. Yes, she’s very sweet girl, what you want with her?”   
“We believe she’s in danger,” Clay lied easily. “Been missing for a few months and her parents are worried sick. Is there anything you could tell us to help us bring her home?” 

The sun was setting and the festival starting, so when Pooch noticed, he hopped onto the nearest truck full of hitchhiking passengers and left Jensen in the dust with a short ‘don’t do anything stupid’ thrown over his shoulder.   
Jensen scoffed, rolling his shoulders and running through the directions to the beach as he turned into a particularly narrow alleyway. The buildings were so close he had to pull his arms in a little to pass through. He had almost reached the otherside when two men appeared at the end, seeming to wait for him to come to them. When he turned to flee, his exit was cut off by two more men, all baring wooden bats. Having no other choice, Jensen kicked down the door to his right and crashed through the building. It was empty save for a startled cat, and he was back on the street in no time, wishing he had stuck with Pooch this one time.   
Trying to lose them in the crowd, he ran and ran, ducking his head so as to be harder to see. He pilfered hats and a coat off the back of a chair to disguise himself, but to no avail. All four of them caught him in a matter of minutes, the youngest-- probably a boy of 14-- leaping onto his back from a rooftop and pinning him to the ground. Things weren’t looking good as they dragged him into the nearby jungle…

Meanwhile, the rest of the Losers were not entirely upset by his brief disappearance, assuming he was hunting a ghost. Their contact met them in red swim trunks and a grey hoodie, looking all the part of a spring break tourist. He introduced himself as Red, and claimed to be ten years younger than Blue. He smiled sweetly as he said her name.   
“I’ve known her my whole life,” he told them, a little choked up, “I can’t think of any reason why she would disappear like this.”   
“Let’s get back to the part where you give us your update,” Clay said with his arms folded over his chest.   
“She’s not here,” Red put simply. He even went so far as to shrug apologetically. “Word is she relocated to Chicago two months ago.”   
The crew looked between each other. Clay confirmed that the only thing they could get out of the owner of the salon was that Blue had been serviced two months prior. He even had a photo of her new look. Once produced, it was just the same, the woman sporting new straight permed hair and a very big smile. The photograph was familial in nature, like a teenage girl getting her picture taken by her loving mother. Red took it back as he seemed keen on keeping it for himself.   
Back at the hotel, they found Jensen bruised and bloody. The skin on the bridge of his nose split, glasses in his hands with the rim bent. He smiled as they entered but they noticed the defeat in his eyes.   
“What happened,” Clay asked.   
Jensen shrugged, the smile melting away. “She’s not here. The guys that beat me up knew her, said she went to the states for good. Didn’t even get a last name for her.”   
Pooch clapped him on the back. “Well good news is so are we,” he said. “We’re going to Chicago.”   
“OK,” he said standing up. “I’ll get my winter coat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really like Mrs. Garrison?? Like, she started off as a one-note character and then I went 'what if she liked cars' and now I love her? You'll probably be seeing her again at some point. Red is played by a 25-year-old Robert Buckley (Major Lilywhite from iZombie) in my head movie.


	5. The Windy City Gets Warmer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Betty's built a small life in the Projects of Chicago until a familiar face spells trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took elements from stories like "Candyman (1992)," "Mob City (2013)," and "Hitman's Bodyguard (2017)" to build Betty's year of backstory. Sonia and Darius Kincaid are ripped straight from the latter, Samuel L. Jackson and Selma Hayek take on the roles of bakery owners and Mob City's Bunny, owner of the Jungle Club, is Bunny here because is run was way too short and Mob City should have gotten a season 2 at least.

Chicago, Illinois 2011  
Grey, noise, and smog. Chicago was a mess of a thousand bodies moving and grooving to the beat of materialism, self-preservation, and greed. Except in part, for this tiny little neighborhood on the edge of what was left of the infamous Cabrini-Green Housing development. Infamous as an abandoned mixed-income project by the city, infamous for its high crime and murder rates, a place where African-Americans moved hoping for change only to be forgotten by the government built to serve them. Still wracked with the same violent blood feuds and drug dens of the rest of Chicago, the woman known as Black Betty took pride in having a part of the safer developments of the Green housing building. Three floors of the west wing were stormed and reinforced to create a safe environment six months earlier. The rest of the building belonged to the gangs-- Betty and her gang only asked that theirs be left in peace. It was a shaky peace, but it stood in all the important ways. Everyone knew who Bunny’s kids were, and they didn’t mess with them.  
Bunny being the figurehead of Betty’s operation. A black Chicago native in his 60’s, still strong for his age. Nobody gave a shit that James Buchanan Thomas had a real name, Bunny was what they’d called him since an incident involving a bar and six men attempted to rape his sister. 'Attempted' being the keyword there. Things in Little Afrika were rolling smoothly like greased wheels.  
“Hey, girl, where’s my donuts at?” Betty laughed as Bunny squeezed her shoulder. He made the same joke every day-- it’s a dad thing, you know.  
“You got five bucks,” she retorted playfully.  
He waved her off down the hall. Bunny was often out finding builders and materials to strengthen their locks, Armed guards-- Horace, Jamal, and Chance-- nodded as she passed into the Classroom. Bernice, one of the teachers, hugged Betty in thanks and helped the kids pass out the treats. As she was busy trying to keep things civil, the other educator O’Brian pulled Betty aside.  
“What is it?”  
O’Brian seemed on edge, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose and brushing a hand over his bald head. “That new white family--”  
“--the Cabots--”  
“--Yeah, whatever, they’re meth heads.”  
Damn, Betty cursed. No drugs. That was the rule in Little Afrika. ‘No drugs’ kept the others gangs out, kept the peace they’d fought so hard for, peace they’d only held for less than five months. Betty was just an advisor, this should have gone straight to Bunny--which could only mean one thing.  
“Bunny’s not doing nothing about it,” she concluded.  
O’Brian nodded quickly, almost losing his glasses in the process. “He says we need more white people. It’s good press, he says. What about the good families who already live here? Why isn’t one white family enough?”  
Betty shushed him, not wanting to raise the attention of the little ears in the room. She could pick out the kids by name, the white ones formed their own little group. Probably because they feel like outcasts. Ain’t that a rabbit turned on its head. The Tuttles were three young girls we called Itsy, Bitsy, and Sissy. They had lived here the longest, quickly making friends, especially among the other girls. The Masons were Tuttle cousins who were still adjusting, having come from an all-white neighborhood previously. Mostly boys, there was Brick, Hannah, Lief, Lyric, Noah, and Little Joe. The Cabots only had two kids-- Caterina and Joan. Those two were blonde as the concrete the building was made from with eyes the color of the sky. They held hands at all times. They were all elbows and knobby knees in ratty dresses looking worse for wear.  
“They need to be here,” Betty affirmed.  
O’Brian started to argue but she stopped him with a nod towards the Cabot girls. “They need us. They need to make friends and to feel loved and learn they letters and numbers. Those little girls have a better chance in this place-- more than they would outside.”  
Nonplussed, O’Brian’s shoulder drooped. He left Betty to retreat to his and Bernice’s office to pout, but Betty was confident he would see her and Bunny’s side of things eventually. A hand tugged at her low hemmed shirt and Betty found Little Bill holding up half of his snack to her.  
She petted his curls and kissed his little forehead. “No thank you, baby, you keep it. I got plenty of those at work.”  
“You going back now,” Bernice asked, her belly swelling bigger every day.  
Her natural hair was so thick it didn’t bounce as she moved, though it should have for its length. She hugged Betty goodbye and began to set up the day’s math lesson. Bernice had gotten her formal education at Brown University, then come back home at Betty’s request to teach these kids. O’Brian had gone to a white Ivy League school, with all the fancy airs and graces. Sometimes he forgot that kids were kids no matter the color of their skin.  
Betty hoped back into her 20-year-old car and drove it to the nearest bus stop some three miles away from the Projects. Her bakery job was in the city, warm gold and orange and pink and vanilla in color. The owners were a married couple, Darius and Sonia Kincaid. Sonia was swearing in Spanish in the backroom and Darius was reading the paper by the front door, watching everyone who entered and exited. Betty took the side entrance, for staff only.  
“Ay, Betty dear, would you help me, por favor?” Flour was everywhere, on every surface but especially Sonia’s apron, sleeves, and shoes.  
Betty tried her best not to laugh outright. “You having a fight with the mixer again?”  
She swore again, hitting the thing on the side and setting it off again. Betty galloped across the kitchen and yanked the power cord from the wall, ending the whirlwind of white powder from thickening the air any further. Brushing her hair back, Betty groaned as she realized there was honey trapped in the flour.  
“No Manches, what the hell are you making besides a mess in here?”  
“Watch your tongue, niña,” Sonia growled.  
It took the better part of an hour to clean, even with Darius and the part-time workers’ help. Once the cleaning was done, the baking began again, with all hands on deck. Sonia had tried to get a leg up on tomorrow’s order-- a huge wedding with 150 guests and twelve dish selections. She was… unaccustomed to doing certain tasks anyway but the old fashioned way. She measured with her heart rather than numbers, testing every dish and making sure they are all perfect in their own ways.  
While Sonia kneaded the dough for pie crust, Betty cut up the fresh apples like a machine. Darius returned to his position by the front door, Hughie cleaned out the ovens, and the new girl moved to the register to sell an elderly couple raspberry danishes. The others put their elbows into their dishes, and the bakery filled with the smells and sounds of efficiency.  
“¿Que tal tu día?” Sonia did not lift her eyes from the task at hand. “Did the children like their sweets?”  
“Yes, ma’am,” Betty replied, “they always love Mama Sonia’s sweets.”  
Sonia made a noise of delight. Hours passed, and as the pies were being packed into the ovens, the register girl tugged at Betty’s arm. It was a shame Sonia didn’t care for name tags, Betty couldn’t for the life of her remember the girl’s name. She cringed inwardly whenever the name Red popped into her head. It was for her hair, but for Betty, that name belonged to someone else, some dear to her. Amber tugged harder, trying to draw Betty out to the lobby with a mischievous smile.  
“What,” Betty said, trying to mask her impatience.  
“There’s a really cute guy in the lobby, come look!”  
Amber’s idea of a really cute guy was always white and chiseled from marble. It wasn’t wrong, it just didn’t have a lot of variety, they always looked like they could be models for companies that make glasses. This one was no different, except for the very troubling ring of familiarity about him. Spiky blond hair and roundish glasses balanced on his nose, wireframe and white gold. He wore gym clothes, his shirt too tight and shorts too loose. The bull tattoo on his left shoulder struck the same cord in Betty’s memory, this time stronger. When his eyes caught her, he smiled, and she was taken back to that Costa Rican beach a year prior. 

He was a dork, there was no denying that. Boyish charm, American dream look, and he talked a lot-- goodness, he never stopped. They lay on the beach after carting a couple dozen leatherbacks into the waves. Betty leaned over him, pressing a hand to his chest and feeling his heart jump. His smile turned goofy like he couldn’t possibly want to be anywhere else. It had been a shame to part ways with him that night, but Betty had somewhere else to be, a hundred other things to do. Namely, hide. She was skipping town that night to America, no idea where she would settle, only that she needed to be impossible to find. 

Looking back on it now, Betty suddenly remembered why she had chosen Chicago. Jensen had talked non-stop about his hometown, how they had the best food and oh you have to try the pizza, it’s the best in the world, but of course he hadn’t mentioned the crime rates and corruption because who would mention that when hyping up their old haunt?  
Now, the goofy goon suddenly turned suave as a cat and slunk up to the register, leaning over the counter so his biceps were practically bulging.  
“What’s a pretty girl like you doing in a place like this?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jensen's back and hotter than ever! Betty is SHOOK.


	6. Peanut Butter Vibes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Losers work out what to do about their latest job and one of them needs some air. Jacob Jensen comes face to face with Black Betty after a year apart and a forgotten romp on a turtle laden beach. So what's next?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one's hella short but have it anyways.

"You."  
"Me," Jensen said jokingly dark.  
Black Betty stared at him in disbelief for so long he was beginning to think she didn't actually want to see him, that is, until she smiled brightly and wriggled out from behind the counter. She had to squeeze past the teenager at the register, who was giving the two of them wide eyed death glares. She wrapped her arms around his chest, her head resting against his solar plexus. Jensen reciprocated full force, relieved to be so kindly received.  
"Didn't think I'd run into you again," she admitted. "You been stalking me?"  
"No, no, no," he waved his hands frantically, recalling an incident where-- yes, he had been technically stalking a girl and how terrible that had gone-- "no, I just happen to be on a job here. This is actually my hometown."  
"No shit," she said, placing her hands on her broad hips. Jensen resisted the urge to lick his lips, but only by a hair. "I just moved here a while back, but me and the owners go way back."  
"That right?"  
Just as she said it, an older, gorgeous Hispanic woman came out and wrapped her arms around Betty's shoulders like a mother might.  
"Betty, dear, I've got all the pastries going for the wedding order," she whispered, "go get the keys from your father and get the delivery truck, will you?"  
"Sí, máma." The woman pecked Betty's cheek and stocked back into the kitchen, her commanding tone escaping the soundproof of the kitchen doors as she shouted for the workers in the back to work harder-- at least that's what Jensen thought she was telling them to do.  
"You and the owners go back a long time," he whistled.  
Betty shrugged. "What can I say? Family works."  
A question lingered on the tip of his tongue, but it was pushed aside in favor of a better one. “Would you like to go out to dinner with me sometime?”  
The woman made a pouting lip like she was thinking. They walked side-by-side on the strip, going nowhere in particular. That is until she took him by the arm and pulled him down a side street. She stopped just before the end, blocking his exit. He looked visibly uncomfortable like he was worried there was a chance of attack. Betty smiled conspiratorially.  
“Lunch. Tomorrow. There's a hotdog vendor on the corner of 5th with my name on it," she instructed, then quickly disappeared somewhere before he could reply. He saw the delivery van pulling up and out onto the curb not a minute later with Betty driving it. She spotted him and waved before heading back in the direction of the bakery. His heart was practically ready to burst out of his chest and he smiled like a nervous idiot all the way back to the hotel.  
“Where the hell have you been,” Clay said, getting in Jensen’s face the moment he walked in the door.  
“Why-- what’s going on?”  
Aisha was pressing a white cloth to her shoulder while Cougar nursed his ankle with ice and Roque stood silent as a sentry in the middle of the room with his arms crossed. Pooch had returned home in California to be with his girls. “What happened? I was gone for like two hours!”  
“We were attacked,” Clay said, turning away.  
“Shots fired down by the docks,” Roque said stroking his chin, “surprised you didn’t hear it.”  
“I wasn’t anywhere near here,” Jensen shrugged with some semblance of concern, “I found Black Betty in a bakery on 5th.”  
“Oh my god,” Clayb rubbed at his tired, tired eyes, “please, not this shit again.”  
“It’s true!”  
"Are you sure it was her,” Aisha asked, just as disbelieving as everyone else but needing to prove it to him. “Sure you didn’t see some pretty thing walking down the street who looked like her?”  
“She hugged me,” Jensen retorted, “and we have a lunch date tomorrow.”  
“Cancel it,” Roque snapped, “immediately. We’ve got to get a game plan together and quick.”  
“Can’t have you screwing around with some girl right now, we have a job on our hands,” Clay agreed.  
“Yeah, and that job almost got us all killed,” even Cougar had turned on Jensen, “almost all of us.”  
Jensen was ready to pitch a fit but he knew at this point he would never win. Being gravely outnumbered in an argument does that to people. He took a seat on the end of the hotel bed, pouting. “Well, I don’t have her number, so…”  
Fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, so not as expository but more set-up for the next chapter. Losers got vibe checked while their local jester went for a jog.


	7. The Troubling Turtle Conundrum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A date at a hot dog stand should have been simple, but that's just not how either of these people work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a serenity that comes with a story you try not to have long building set-ups for, but this too comes with its own set of challenges. I'm loving it though!

While Jensen was busy taking a long, cold shower, the rest of the gang moped in the shared space of Clay and Aisha’s room.   
“What if we set a trap for her,” Clay suggested.   
“Set a trap for her for the unknown and highly trained enemy who knew enough about us to almost get us killed,” Roque hissed. “Not bloody likely, mate.”   
“You got any better fucking ideas, I’m all ears, pal.”   
“Guys,” Aisha growled. “These were warning shots. Blue caught us completely unawares. She had all four of us dead-to-rights but she just wounded us, instead? We gotta be really clever about our next move because we’ve already lost the element of surprise.”   
Cougar laid down on the bed, silent as per the usual. Once he had been a lively chatter-box like his buddy Jensen, but after that day in the jungle, he changed. At least that’s the story Aisha had been told. No one had contradicted it thus far, so really she had no reason to believe it to be false. 

Meanwhile, in the markets of downtown Chicago, Betty’s pager buzzed in her pocket. She was on a strict no contact rule, so it had to be urgent. Excusing herself from the fruit stand, she tucked her earpiece in and answered.   
“You’ve got a tail,” the voice cracked over the scrambled line. Betty’s partner must have been high up somewhere-- she did most of her surveillance through a sniper rifle that way. “Four boogies hold up in the Garden Lookout hotel. I gave them a warning but they’ll probably be back. Black Card doesn’t take too kindly to rogue agents.”   
“Understood. Standby.” Betty slipped an earphone in and listened to smooth R&B as she jogged to the only payphone within miles. It rested in a seedy dive bar, beat up with speaker wires exposed in the handle. Betty-- known to the Highest Priority as Blue II-- made a call to another friend-- this time a male.   
“To what do I owe the honor,” Magenta drawled.   
“I need a favor of you. Chartreuse is going to send you some photographs and we need you to call your guy and get their profiles to an address in Illinois.”   
“Rodger Dodger,” he replied casually and hung up. Blue left the bar and returned to instructing her guardian angel. “Let’s see if we can’t draw them out again. Send a message from Black Card about a meeting at noon tomorrow.” 

Jensen and Cougar played a round of Blind Man’s Bluff while Aisha and Roque stood outside in the night air. Clay laid with an ice pack to his forehead to stave off his pounding migraine and continued to be a grouch. As for the pair on the porch, it would have been shockingly cold despite the severe wind chill blowing in from the docks. Given the lingering animosity and distrust between them, it was considered progress they could breathe the same air without stabbing each other. Aisha’s burner pinged with an incoming message. Finally, she thought.   
“I got something.” Despite their bitter past, Roque leaned in to get a better view of the message instead of snatching it out of her hand. On-screen, there was a text message with an image attachment of a street sign. The message read: Tomorrow at noon-- Red. “Looks promising.”   
In showing it to the group, Jensen perked up like a woody. “That’s vendor street where all the best hot dogs are sold!”   
Clay shook himself awake and crossed his arms. “Looks like you’ll be getting that date after all.” 

Noon on a Friday meant the street was packed with tourists and residents on lunch break alike. Jensen tapped his foot nervously as he looked around for the turquoise jacket Betty promised to be wearing. He was beginning to think she had gotten cold feet and jumped when a voracious pigeon landed on his shoe.   
“Chill, Jensen,” a voice hissed through his earpiece. “You look like a patsy for a drug deal, bro.”   
“I am chill,” Jensen retorted. “I’m chill-- I’m cold as ice, man. I just don’t like standing here with my dick in my hand.   
“Happens to him all the time,” Roque said presumably to Aisha.   
“I’d believe it,” she responded.   
“Get off my balls, OK,” Jensen groaned, “I’m the king of cool and that’s that.”   
A soft chuckle wormed its way into Jensen’s free ear, startling him. “Do you have an imaginary friend or do you always talk to yourself?”   
Betty, indeed wearing a turquoise jacket was nothing but smiles. A few gasps echoed over the comms, and Clay swore under his breath, “I can’t fucking believe it. She’s real after all.”   
Jensen chuckled, mostly a sound of great victory at having been proved right all along. “Nah, nah, I was just…”   
He motioned around his feet at the twenty or so pigeons that had formed a clan beneath the statue’s feet as if summoned by some supernatural force. “I was talking to these guys. Cute little buggers, but man, they cannot hold a conversation to save their lives!”   
“It’s OK, I’m sure you could talk the ear off a brick wall,” Betty laughed. Someone in Jensen’s ear said ‘amen,’ and he ignored it.   
“Do we have visual on the date yet,” Clay asked.   
Cougar-- the visual-- huffed. “We would if I had been given the chance to scout out a better nest. The fucking elevator in here is busted-- I have to climb the last seven flights of stairs right now.”   
“Alright, well make it snappy,” Clay responded. Cougar cursed as his bruised ankle bothered him some more, swearing in both tongues. Roque took the opportunity to joke about good exercise and got a string of long and elaborate curses thrown back at him.   
“I don’t know what you said but it wasn’t nice, so you better take that back before I bust your other ankle.”   
“Ladies, ladies,” Aisha’s annoyed voice cut through like a hot knife and butter, “play nice. We got a job to do.”   
While the gang bantered away, Betty pulled Jensen along by his elbow through the throng of American consumers, dodging underfoot children and starving street players trying to earn that extra cash for their trade. In the hustle, Jensen spotted a glimpse of Clay seated strategically on the patio of a smoothie bar, keeping an eye out. Betty had her hood up to keep the sun out of her eyes and he couldn’t get a good visual of Jensen’s girlfriend aside from her curvaceous legs beneath her shorts. Jensen knew Aisha was somewhere following them in the crowd like a ghost and watching for the mysterious and highly elusive target. Meanwhile, Cougar was nearing his proper position in the tower nearby and Roque-- for the team only knows what reason but forgot to explain to Jensen-- was sat a mile away in a public garden. For his safety, they had told him whatever that meant. Surely if Roque was in danger they all were? The past couple of months Jensen had been preoccupied at every turn with the thought of finding Betty again-- he had never gotten a proper briefing on the mission at hand. He didn’t even know what the target looked like, much less why they were after them or what the group was going to do with them once they were captured.   
Jensen made a mental note to have that rectified, but later. The here and now was precious little time he could enjoy with his lady. “No fucking way,” he breathed, “Sal?”   
Before Betty could speak, the lone hot dog vendor surrounded only by locals looked up and shouted back in delight. “Is that Derek Jensen’s boy I see?” Salvador Martinez enveloped the younger and taller man into a familiar embrace. “My God, I haven’t seen you since you was this tall.”   
Sal gestured somewhere along his hip, and as he turned to greet Betty, Jensen made eye contact and correct Sal’s gesture of his height, setting his hand about Sal’s shoulders-- just above Jensen’s naval. They ordered and talked shop with the old man. He had nothing but praise to shower, both on them as individuals and as a couple. Neither blushed but they did share a sidelong glance and smile.   
“You know sal and he approves of you,” Jensen stated. “Is it too soon to ask you to marry me?”   
“Buy me this hot dog and we can talk about a prenup,” Betty replied.   
“Deal.”   
Cougar’s harsh breathing ripped through the Losers line of communication. “I made it. Got some dirty looks, but I’m here.”   
Betty frowned for a second. “I’ll be right back.”   
“Don’t be long,” Jensen called after her retreating back. “Then he saw it. “Uh, guys.”   
“Oh, what the fuck--” A wave of people holding handmade signs and turtle balloons began to swamp the street, quickly filling the space in a matter of seconds.   
“It’s a protest,” someone said unnecessarily. The group was shouting ‘save the turtles’ and collectively wearing shades of blue and green, many wearing handout merch of turquoise with green graphic turtles on them.   
“There’s too many of them,” Cougar said,” Even if Blue were in there, I wouldn’t be able to find her. I can’t even see fucking Jensen in this mess.”   
“Fuck,” that was definitely Clay, but he spoke for everyone when he said it. “Fan out. She’s probably using the crowd as a cover.”   
A chorus of “affirmatives” answered him. Betty came back and plucked her jalapeno laden hot dog out of Jensen’s hand.   
“Where the hell did all of these people come from?” She looked just as annoyed as Jensen felt.   
“You didn’t know? They’re wearing your color,” he pointed out only to see her shrug.   
“Good thing I found you before they showed up,” she said. “Maybe I should sue them for copyright infringement.”   
“Date’s over, Jensen, get out here and help out.” Aisha turned her comm off and disappeared.   
Stuffing the final half of his hot dog, the man almost choked as he pretended to get a text from someone. “Oh my god, Betty, I’m so sorry,” he swallowed hard. “My work just called, they need me at the zoo.”   
“You work at a zoo?”   
“Yeah, my colleagues are animals.” She punched him in the shoulder. “Seriously though, I do have to leave. Can I have your cell number?”   
“I don’t have one but…” Betty whipped her head around and borrowed a pen from a protester with a clipboard petition and wrote a few digits on the inside of his arm. “My home address. Don’t call after nine ‘cause it’s a shared line apartment-- and ask for Black Betty.”   
“You’re awesome.” Jensen grabbed her cheeks and planted a chaste kiss on her full lips. “I will call you soon, promise.”   
“You better,” she said. In a moment, only a single moment, Betty skipped into the thick of the crowd and disappeared as suddenly as she had appeared.   
The gang spent the next five hours following the protest march only to come up empty-handed. Jensen mentioned how he had no idea what the hell they were looking for and was given a brief overview and description of the subject-- Blue. He spotted at least six women on the street who matched the descriptions “a female Roque” and “pretty black girl with box braids.” 

Night fell again before the gang gathered up. With the hotel thought to be compromised, they moved into the back of a U-Haul for the night. Cougar’s patience was wearing thinner by the second. “I talked to Yvette,” Aisha explained, throwing the phone to the floor with a loud clang. “She said Red was not on the job and couldn’t have sent us that info. It was a set-up.”   
“But nothing even happened,” Jensen pitched from his position leaning on the wall.   
“Probably trying to get a better look at us,” Roque suggested while pacing like a freshly caged tiger. “It’s what we would do.”   
“And so the hunters become the hunted,” Jensen said with fake horror.   
“Shut the hell up,” Roque threatened.   
“Jeez,” the blond said, “what crawled up your ass and died?”   
“Blue is his biological daughter,” Aisha explained. “These assets-- whatever they are to Yvette’s organization-- have a track record of murder with extreme prejudice when it comes to their blood. Roque’s ass is first in the line of fire.”   
“Jee willikers, batman,” Jensen exclaimed, “And you said they were clones?”   
“Yup.”   
“She must ve fugly, then,” Jensen said squinting his eyes hard and scrunching his nose like he could smell sulfur.   
“Actually she’s _muy bonita_ ,” Cougar said, massaging his sore ankle. “We got a picture of her somewhere.”   
Clay stood up out of his chair and looked around. It gave him something to do other than brood. Jensen stepped out to give Clay some room and called Betty. The first three digits were smudged away by sweat in the crook of his elbow, but Jensen knew the area code by heart and dialed away. Too late he remembered her words of warning just as a gruff male voice answered, swearing in Spanish.   
"What the fuck do you want? Hello?!"   
Jensen checked the time on his phone-- definitely not 9 PM, but some people were just like that-- grumpy all the time. The man called for Betty impatiently and put her on.   
"Hey," she greeted. He could hear the soft, sideways smile she wore like a pearl necklace. It sent his heart pounding.   
"I just couldn't stay away," he said, only half-joking. "So that was a totally weird date and I can't wait to do another one. When can I see you again?"   
"Whenever you got time between your job as a zookeeper. Are you a janitor for animals? Is that what you do?"   
"Ha," Jensen laughed dryly. "Nah, I'm like the head of security around here. You should come but some time and watch me wrestle an alligator."   
Jensen cringed. It wasn't sexy but she seemed to prefer his humorous side anyways. It was something that baffled him about Betty-- she made him feel weirdly confident and comfortable in ways his interactions with other women. In that same vein, though, she made in step out of his comfort zone. She made him want to tell her the truth, which was just going to be dangerous and bad for both of them.   
Betty was laughing on the line when Jensen finished his introspective brooding. "Thought you were from Chicago, not Florida."   
He shrugged even though she couldn't see him. "We all got a little Florida in us."   
"Alright smartass." Betty softened. "I really am glad you found me yesterday. Even though it's been a year and we've only gone on two dates, I feel grateful to have a second chance to get to know you better."   
"Ditto." He meant it, too, feeling his heart flutter a little as if he were a 15-year-old with his first crush. "Ever been bar-hopping? There's a string of Irish pubs along the redacted river that are pretty fun."   
"Sounds like a date," she said.   
They wished each other goodnight and hung up with butterflies in their stomachs. Those butterflies turned to stones when Jensen awoke the next morning to see the picture of Agent Blue looked like a freshly souring memory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is really going to come sandwiched in between my school schedule and my work schedule. I don't have a lot of free time so this is an unwinding thing for me. I hope y'all are enjoying this content and that I will continue to satisfy your needs as readers.


	8. Cottonmouth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Black Betty and Blue are one and the same-- but is that down-to-earth, sweet-faced woman really the bloodthirsty assassin/terrorist they were being led to believe? At this point, Jensen is willing to ask every question no matter its relevance to save face. Beautiful, loving face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short and sweet and to the point

A bitter wave of gloom glued the trapdoor of nonsense that was Jensen’s mouth. He hung his head in the corner, unable to sleep the night and not just because he was camped out in a U-Haul with four other people and no real bedding. For their part, the group paid him no mind, a relief for him now as, frankly, he had no fucking clue what to say or do about this latest shit storm conundrum.   
“We are five to one,” Clay said, his face pinched and his fist quite visible atop the tiny coffee table set up. “She knows we’re here and may have already disappeared again. If anybody had some suggestions, speak now.”   
Jensen did not move except to sink deeper into his corner of the floor. No one else had any spontaneous ideas, so the only sound in town was a leaf blower just outside and car horns. Clay leaned back in the one chair they had to share and sighed. They needed leads and fast before she skipped town. But… Jensen’s tongue sat like lead in his mouth and he blinked away the moisture gathering in his eyes.   
“Take this,” Clay lifted the photo from the file, “to the nearest print shop. We’re going to go covert-- pretend she’s a person of interest for the CIA. Copy?”   
A chorus of ‘copies’ answered him, but Jensen could do nothing but nod. The day followed like a terrible nightmare. He wandered around his own home like the saddest specter, his head full of grey clouds and his heart in his shoes. Maybe he should talk to her? Before he could even debate the thought he realized he had wandered into the Bakery again. It was just as lively as it had been the day before-- nothing in the world seemed to have changed since that horrible discovery he had made the night before-- and it felt wrong. The man was like a tiny, sad child’s drawing in the middle of a Georges Seurat painting. He didn’t even have the strength to muster a fake smile when the woman Blue had lied about being her mother came to greet him.   
“Hola,” she was so chipper. “If you are looking for Betty, she’s off today. Not gonna be back for two days.”   
He nodded like his head was full of water. “OK, uh… thanks anyways.”   
Her eyes switched to something of great concern as if she had known him longer than the time it would take to brush her thick hair. “Are you alright, honey? Have you talked to her?”   
He smiled politely. “I will, I will. Thank you, again.”   
Jensen left the bakery with an ounce of determination. Maybe he should call her. What would he even say… hey, I know you’re a clone daughter of my friend and fugitive assassin, so what’s, like, up with that? Jesus on a stick. “I should just call her and see what happens.” The man was always better at winging it, anyways. He pulled his cell phone and dialed the number that was nothing more than a grey smudge on his arm now. Everything became a haze until at last, he heard her voice.   
His throat stuck like he’d swallowed sand. So much shit surfaced all at once. Why? He understood being an assassin and lying to protect her identity but… did she know he was part of the crew after her? Is that why she had agreed to go on a date with him? Was she using him to get to his crew?   
“Jensen?” Betty’s voice sounded distant like she was holding his head underwater. He couldn’t even muster the strength to thrash. “Hey, what’s going on are you OK?”   
Oh god, she even sounded genuine. “Can we talk?”   
She gave him a time and a place for tomorrow and hung up. That pit in his stomach became an entire chasm swallowing him up. He knew who the asset was and where they would be. He should tell the gang, he fucking owed them that. But…  
“Why are we doing this,” he asked the group that night. They had all pitched a huge fit about the u-haul condition and upgraded to a dingy motel with a crack problem. Cougar was at by the radio blasting music to drown out whatever moaning was coming from next door and Roque had disappeared for the thousandth time to patrol or something. His absence gave Jensen some relief from the radiation of fear and angry constantly rolling off of him. “I mean, I get that she is dangerous and Roque’s daughter but, like, that’s the end of our connection to this job. What’s the payout here?”   
“Big,” Aisha put simply. “Very big, and we can ransom for more if we play our cards right.”   
Jensen tapped his fingers nervously on the tabletop. Clay was eyeing him, that much he could tell though he dared not look in his direction lest his composure crumble to pieces like a sawdust sculpture.   
“Haven’t heard a peep out of you in a while,’ Clay drawled. “Good to see you haven’t lost your spark.”   
Jensen had to force himself to talk. “I mean obviously I’m all for a fat paycheck but what are we even doing? Who’s this ‘Yvette’ and why doesn’t her organization have a proper name? What are they doing with stormtroopers-- why are they so unstable? Is it just this one or are all of them like that? Are they bipping terrorists or tossing babies into rivers? Why is it only this one agent who’s gone rogue and what are they going to do with her when they get their hands on her?”   
Aisha stared with massive amounts of contempt-- her way of giving him a low effort eye roll, but Clay looked troubled. Cougar couldn’t hear shit with the radio under his nose, so Jensen, finally confident enough to look Clay in the eye, asked,  
“What if we’re the bad guys? “  
Clay didn’t answer him. No one did. The question faded like a tiny old bell into the noise of the next day, when busy work took priority over his existential contemplation. Jensen only remembered waking up and returning to the motel, and as soon as he realized he had completely forgotten the date he had set with Betty did an oddly euphoric sense of relief wash over him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> School's kicking my ass three times a week and I haven't had time to think let alone write even for this. Thanks for sticking around, I hope I can keep y'alls interest while you wait for the next one
> 
> Also "bipping" is an Achievement Hunter GTA V thing? If you caught they reference awesome, but if it sounds like I'm speaking a different language it just means 'shooting dead/shoot to kill.' Get bipped, terrorists.


	9. Snakeskin Boots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She leaves the Windy City behind her

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my break chapter between the first half of my finals.

In one of the many empty alleys in Chicago, Betty waited. The icy wind stiffened her fingers to resemble claws and her cheeks were dry from windburn, and still, she waited outside. Inside was too warm, too nervous. At least outside kept the nervous sweat from forming anymore. She did not need to check her watch to know Jensen was late by hours.  
Chartreuse’s voice crackled over the comm. “He’s not coming and you’re not dead, so why are we still here?”  
Betty glared at one end of the alley, mindful not to look around for someone she knew she wouldn’t see. Char was right, of course, and that’s what made Betty’s heart sink into her stomach. If he wasn’t coming even though he had been the one who wanted to talk, then it meant he knew. He knew who she was. He also knew where she frequented and who she was with on the regular. He knew she was the one they were looking for, and that she had lied to him. If he felt an ounce of resentment about it, he would go straight to his friends. Since she hadn’t been shot yet, he was probably sitting in the information.  
“I’m burned,” Betty announced. “Pack up and get out of here.”  
“You’re not going to say goodbye to your cover, are you?” Char knew the consequences, Betty too, and she was catching on to Betty’s developing sentimentality. “Please, I’m begging you not to. Think about what you’re putting at risk.”  
“Comm out.” The earpiece dropped to the ground before swiftly being stomped into many small pieces. The Kincaids would be fine, but Little Afrika would have a harder time accepting a founding member disappearing in the blink of an eye. It would be dangerous not to say goodbye.  
The entire ride north felt like a death march. Every streetlight she passed as daybreak gathered felt like a new headstone in a graveyard and this Betty persona was walking into her own grave. Black Betty of Chicago was going to die, just like all the other identities before her. Bettina of the Caribbean, Birdie of Quebec, Bernice of London, Barbra of Sri Lanka. All dead and buried, come and gone without a trace. It’s what she had been trained to do and it’s what kept her operation going. Black Card was furious and sent the Losers were the bounty hunters sent to put her back in her place.  
They'd hurt the people who had helped her. Those Losers were going to get Bunny and Sonia out of Jensen, and then they would tell Black Card, and unknowingly sentence them to a horrible fate. Maybe the rest of the squad wouldn't care, but Jensen will. That is if he isn't so angry he had already set a trap for her.  
Little Afrika was quiet for midday. Fewer than twelve people milled about outside but they were either gang members or the homeless. No sign of extra danger other than the group of young men loitering and looking her up and down by the entrance. Betty walked past them without acknowledgment and immediately spotted Chance watching them from the top of the stairs.  
"Hey Betty," Chance smiled like the sun and waved, taking a hand off his AK. She hugged him around his shoulders tightly. When she pulled away, his face had changed to one of concern. "Something wrong?"  
Betty bit her lip intentionally. "I need to talk to Bunny."  
He nodded, this nervous energy suddenly rolling off of him in heavy waves that every person he encountered felt. The place was empty of children, likely the teachers had taken them out on a field trip for exercise. Other people-- including some parents-- lounged about with smiles on their faces and easy conversation. Bunny was in Dahlia Jones' apartment fixing the heater. Both Dahlia and Chance left them to talk in private.  
Bunny never stopped tinkering with the nuts and bolts of the heater as he said, “you know, Bernice is going to have that little baby soon. Kids’ll be sad when she goes on maternity leave, but I’d bet you my bottom dollar their fragile little hearts would feel less devastated if you stepped in for a while.”  
He peered up at Betty with a warm smile that fell short when he saw the expression on her face. “What’s wrong?”  
“I,” she pretended to be nervous, “I’ve got some trouble coming my way…”  
Bunny was on his feet with a death grip on his wrench. “What kind of trouble?”  
“It’s just my past,” she replied, giving him a weak smile of appeasement. “It’s nothing really, I just… I need to get away for a while.”  
Bunny crossed his arms suspiciously. “How long is a while?”  
“I don’t know… weeks or months, maybe.” Years, hummed the heater beside them giving off nothing but cold. Betty stuffed her stiff fingers into the warm space under her arms. “I won’t be able to call often. Hell, I don’t know if I’ll be able to call at all. Seeing him…”  
Betty had never learned never to give a full backstory. Lies were easier when you didn’t have to keep track of details, they made you intriguing and the mystery usually kept them interested long enough to warm up to you. She had a strange instinct for using the exact right words to keep even the nosiest of people from asking too many questions. Bunny wrapped the woman in his arms and gave her a fatherly bear hug. She took it like one, wrapping her arms back around him knowing the pressure he’d be under to break the news to the rest of the company.  
They’d all be safer this way, knowing nothing of the truth. It still wouldn’t be enough to save them from the Black Card.  
She returned to her room only to collect her things and left a suitcase of clothing in a dumpster twelve blocks away. Money in her sock, she boarded a greyhound bound north and sat as close to the back as possible. Every bump in the road that rocked her in her seat helped her to shed the last clinging ounces of her identity and Black Betty became Blue once more.

Except for the paper note she left in Sonia Kincaid's backdoor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, this is as far as I've pre-planned so everything that happens next will be as much of a surprise to you as it is to me.


End file.
